Father and Daughter
by TheSirenMonster
Summary: What if Haytham Kenway had a secret daughter before Connor? Waiting for her Father's return to England as he was away in America to find the hidden storehouse of secrets? Story contains family, brief gore, and first point-of-view.
1. Johanna Kenway

**A story entirely inspired by the heart-warming 2000 animated short-film called ****_Father and Daughter_****.**

* * *

_A Father's Heart - though it made be tough, hard and mean, its touch is gentle and purposeful. That is the Father's Heart._

* * *

I don't know when the task for my Father's disappearance was announced, but I knew he had to leave me soon.

After he had spoken with the other Templar men in the room, within the chateau settled in England, he came back to his own quarters where I was waiting for him. I was 7-years-old that time, sitting at his desk and waiting up for him to read me another bedtime story on another fictitious tale of fools and kings. When he came back to his room, I instantly noticed a heavy gloom shadowing his elder face.

He looked pale from news that Reginald had given him. Although he would live up to the expectation, something told me otherwise about his newest destination and task at hand. It made me not ask him to read me a story that night. I pulled back to ask, but then, his eyes met with mine, and he gave me a small, sweet smile, and asked if he wanted me to continue reading the story he held off from yesterday. I said yes, and he read the story to me once more.

He read it a while longer than usual. With him next to me on the bedside, with one arm wrapped around my shoulders to bring me closer to his side, he read the story on and on again, not stopping on a chapter, like he would usually do nightly. My head rested against the front of his shoulder, with my tiny arms wrapped around his chest and back, with my eyes still open, as I listened to his heavy voice continuing the story, until it finally ended. I listened to him carefully, and knew something was bothering him. Whatever Reginald told him made him somber. It was like feeling a brick weighing on your heart, when you knew something was wrong.

And then that same night, he told me what was wrong.

He was going to leave for America soon.

I wanted to cry, hearing the terrible news. I wished I hadn't asked, yet I still desperately wanted to know. Tears prickled at my big, puppyish eyes as I gave him the most upset look I had ever shown. If he were leaving for America, leaving England... that meant he was leaving me, too. I didn't want to accept that. Being persistent and almost nagging, I begged him to stay and let someone else take on the task. I still wouldn't shed those tears, but he could see them visible filling up in my eyes. My face was pink from becoming flushed out of confusion and anger, wanting to blame Reginald as much as I wanted to, for sending my Father away from me.

But Father didn't want me to be mad. He still wanted to do this task, to find this hidden storehouse, and the ones that 'ruled, reign, and vanish from the world.' I didn't know what that meant. I thought he was talking about dead people once. It was silly, but it's what I thought he meant. As much as I wanted him to reconsider, I knew that he would be way too hard-headed to give in. When Father's mind was set on something, there was no going back on what he aimed to do.

I felt defeated when he firmly stated another time that he wasn't going to give up on this quest. I then retreated to my room and finally let the tears fall.

On the day of his departure, I wanted to go and see him leave.

He was traveling by ship, with a crew of pirates that were also heading out for America. The trip to the docks in the stagecoach was awfully silent and uncomfortable. Even if my Father were prepared to leave, and I was prepared to say my goodbye, there was still something lingering in our orbit. Something missing, it felt like. As if I had left too soon, and whatever important I left behind couldn't be retrieved, because I was too far-gone to go back for it. It felt like heaviness weighing on my tiny shoulders.

But then, in the middle of our ride to the docks, my father lifted his head up to meet my eyes. His eyes were dark with rambling thoughts, but I knew he wanted to say something to me. I just connected my eyes with his, and awaited for what he wanted to say.

"Johanna," Father spoke up to me with a quiet tone. "It's not as if I will completely disconnect from you, you know. I will always write letters to you."

That sounded assuring to me, slightly lifting me from the dark cloud that was pouring sad thoughts on me. My eyes sparkled some, as hope, but not enough to be convinced. "... It's not the same." I remember responding, with my squeaky voice of a 7-year-old's. "You won't be here."

He nodded silently to that. "I know." He only said, not sure of what else to convince me of saying.

But I wanted to ask a serious question this time now. "Daddy," I twisted my small hands together thoughtfully, nervously. "... How long will you be gone?"

He paused. I could see it physically. He glanced at the window of the coach for a moment to repress his thoughts, but I knew too well of what the outcome would be.

We just left that in silence. I knew he wouldn't come back...

At the docks, watching as other older and elder men were boarding the ship, with shipmates loading up the lower deck with goods and anything else they may have purchased widely on their newest destination, I watched as Father had let a pirate lad take his luggage and carry it up on the ship. I stood out of the stagecoach, walking towards the boarding steps up to the ship, watching my Father silently exchange words with Captain Smythe.

After their brief conversation, the Captain boarded onto the ship first, while my Father came back to me to exchange our last goodbyes. He knelt down to my height and embraced me tight, kissing me on the side of my forehead. When I embraced him back, with my arms tingling with sadness, I knew I had to let him go. As much as it ached inside my heart to let Father go, I knew I had to.

When he pulled away and stood upright, he turned and started for the boarding steps of the ship. Before he took a step onto the boarding, he paused, staring up at the vessel, and then looked over his shoulder at me. His brows were raised and expression full of purpose. My eyes welded in more tears when I saw his gray eyes meet with mine, but all I did was wipe my sleeve over my eyes to stop them from watering up further.

Father then ran back to me, with a warming smirk quirked on his old features, scooping me up in his arms fast to pick me from the ground. He embraced me once again, and I desperately hugged him back, with my arms around his shoulders and my head nuzzled close to the side of his neck. He twirled around once with me in his arms, his head pressed close to mine, whispering something to me before he squeezed his large arms around my torso.

"I love you, poppet." He smiled widely, eyes closed, as he still held me up.

I let my tears stream once more, sniffling and making a small laugh. "I love you more."

"I love you most." He retorted, full of heart and mind. His voice - I miss so much. He gave me a hard kiss on the forehead once more, making me giggle sheepishly as he did. He then pulled away to press my forehead against his. My bright green eyes met with dark voids, as I could almost see the glowing warmth of my Father's golden heart shine bright in the darkness. Eyes that gave me courage, I felt. Always the feeling of accomplishment and strength I needed most.

I childishly thought before that Father wanted to leave because of me. But then and there, I knew he still loved me with all his heart and might.

My Father's heart. I would remember it always.

* * *

Days felt like years, as they dragged on at a snail's pace.

When my Father had left England that day, I watched at the docks to look on at the departure. I didn't know if my Father was looking back or not. The ship was distancing itself so far off, it was hard to make out whether someone was standing at the railing of the ship or not. But all I knew was that my Father was on that ship. He left me, I knew, but it didn't discourage me.

Since he left, I had vowed to wait for him.

Everyday, after school, I would go back to the same docks Father left, and sit on the pier and watched the wide opened sea before me, awaiting for any familiar ship to come back to England and return Father. I was just 7-years-old at the time, yet I was mature enough to understand the long, long wait for his arrival back home. It would be the longest wait I had ever made... yet I would remain loyal, sit put, and wait. I think I would wait at the pier for hours, until it was darkening to a twilight's time. When it became too dark out to see, with just a dim light of a dying sun from beyond the ocean, I would get up and head back home.

Home... I had no siblings. I didn't have a Mother, either. Instead, I remained in the chateau Reginald owned. Other Templar men stayed in the massive mansion as well, but I knew to steer clear from their paths. As much as Father did worked alongside these loyal Templar men, he always warned me to stay away from them, if he weren't home to be at my side. I followed his words as if he were still there, and just stayed as a good girl, never bothering and never intruding on their conversations.

But I decided to start something my Father did when he were home. He wrote down all his bottled words into a journal. I would usually see him jotting down his thoughts into a journal, while I would be studying my grammar from school assessment. I was always curious to know what he wrote, but he told me to never snoop on other people's journals. When I became older, he promised to let me read his journal. I nodded to that, I remember.

When I began writing into my new journal I received from school, it felt a little better to write down all my own bottled thoughts. I liked writing, so this was a better way to sharpen my skill on English.

I wrote about the usual things a young girl would go through. School, home troubles, friends, outings, and what I did for the day.

One thing I knew I would repeatedly jot down into my journal pages were; _I waited for Father at the pier today again_.

I think writing into that journal made the months feel shorter. My thoughts written down to relieve some of the hidden stress I would feel, and the worry of school. I wouldn't talk to Reginald about the thoughts I had stored in my head. As much as my Father looked to him as a Mentor, I wouldn't find his presence so... nice. Reginald was a stern man, that wanted perfection and success. I didn't flow on the path of perfection - like anyone else couldn't - and it made me want to back away from the man, as much as I could. I was no student of his, nor would I be. My Father was my teacher, and I, a willing student.

For the past few months that went by quietly and uncomfortably, I had done the same routine everyday for my new life-cycle. Wake up, get ready for school. Go to school, get all my work done. School was out, walk to the docks, and wait at the pier for Father. When it was dark out, go back home, do homework, and then sleep. Same little cycle I did everyday, minding my own business, as the others did.

Until one day, a messenger arrived to the chateau, and said he had a letter for me from a Haytham Kenway.

I was so excited to read his letter. It's been four months! This was the first letter from him.

_My dearest poppet,_

_How are you? Are you well? Are you keeping up with school and studying, as I hope you are?_

_I am fine where I am. America is awfully different - let me tell you. Boston is nothing compared to home. People are no different here, I assure you. It's rather dull and boring, but I still press on with my task. Do you remember the list of men that sympathize to our cause? Well, I met them. A strange bunch of men, I should tell you. One of the oddest being the man called Charles Lee. He's... alright? If you were here and met the man, I knew you would feel as equally awkward as I do. But, he's loyal, I'll give him that. Loyal as any man could ever be to our mission._

_But I am still wondering how you are, my dear. You are well, I hope? It feels wrong of me to not be at your side. I worry constantly about you. There isn't a day that doesn't go by without you on my mind. It's only been months, yet it already feels like years. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, the quote had said in that book I read you. It wasn't lying. Write me back whenever you can, poppet. I'll continue writing to you on my end._

_I love you,  
Father._

Since that letter, I had begun my own messages responding back. It was amazing to read my Father's familiar hand-writing one again. Just knowing that he could write me back was precious to me. I wanted to keep the connection alive. I wrote down everything I had boggled in my mind.

_Dear Father,_

_Gosh, it's been months since I last heard from you!_

_I'm doing all right here on my end. My school is allowing me to work with a music Mentor that will teach me violin. I want to play too many songs we always hear from the opera. Remember the last one we went to, before you were sent away? I wanted to play that song. It's really odd over here, without you. I steer clear from the other men in the chateau as you said, and none had dared to speak to me since you've been gone. Lonely without speaking to someone here, but, I still have friends in school to talk to, so I guess it's all right._

_Yes, I remember the listed men on that paper. Charles Lee is a funny name. Tell him I said that! It'll be funny! Are THEY being nice to you, Father? If they aren't, I'll kick their butts, if you want. I'm strong, too. Just like you._

_Do you know when you'll be home? Is it soon? I miss you lots. Tell me when you'll be able to come home the next time you write me, okay?!_

_I love you more,  
- Johanna_

When my letter was mailed, I continued my daily routine life. I waited patiently for Father to come home, or waited for another letter to arrive at the docks. I was overeager for his response on when he would be able to come back home.

We wrote to each other here and there, monthly. Since we were apart by so many months or how ever many miles by ocean, receiving mail was always painfully agonizing to sit and wait for. I was always happy to hear that another letter was brought to the chateau by the courier. Every time it were the first day of a different month, I would wait for any mail to arrive. I always had my own letter, while Reginald or any other man in the house had their own. I wouldn't usually show my own letters I received from Father, though. Natural reflex to stay clear from the other Templar men.

We wrote to each other for three years. Until one day, Father stopped writing back to me.

* * *

Days were becoming months. Months were becoming years. I was getting older.

Haytham Kenway, my Father, left home when I was 7-years-old. Everyday, after school, I would go to the pier at the docks, and sit there at the edge with my feet dangling down the pier, as I would wait and wait for a ship to come ashore. Days I would just feel as if it would become hopeless to wait for Father, but I didn't like to give in. Not yet. I knew he had to come home. He couldn't stay in America forever, could he? No, that was silly.

I remained loyal to wait for Father's return. In the meantime for his arrival, I had done many goals in my life. I had practiced violin everyday with my music Mentor, until I was hopefully as good as any world famous composer. I hoped. I continued writing in my journal, until it was filled up with no emptied page left for me to jot down in. Then I would be given new ones from school, and would fill up those journals until I needed new ones again. Some journals were filled with my day-to-day thoughts, and some were fictitious nonsense of fictional stories I wanted to write.

Reginald found it suitable to start training me when I was 10-years-old. He didn't want me to sit around and do nothing particularly as a Templar did, so he started training me on what else my Father knew best in climbing, fighting, understanding... and falling. I wasn't as sharp as my Father, but I would try my best to not stay on Reginald's bad side. I tried harder everyday to become better. I just wished I was as good as Father.

Climbing rooftops and scaling walls were actually fun. No one else in the city knew how to do the same, so it was all amusement to see their faces churn to confusion or shock when they saw me climbing along walls and jumping roof-to-roof with ease. It wasn't proper to teach a youngling these techniques, of course, but there was no stopping me from becoming like a skilled Templar like my Father. I had even thought I was scooting closer to Reginald's good side, sometimes. I would fall back to between what he felt, though, floating here and there, to good and bad, all the time. It made no sense, but when had he ever made sense?

As my life was going forth, my determination to hear from my Father again never subsided.

I would write letters, still. Addressed to the same place he last wrote from in America, and I would still have no response. It didn't stop me. Everyday I would wait up for him at the docks, no matter what. Every time I returned to the docks, I would remember the same memory of my Father giving me one last goodbye before he left. How he embraced me tightly and kissed me on the forehead. I didn't want to give up on our bond. He was all I had left.

Workers at the pier would recognize my face every time I arrived to the docks. They would say hello, wave, talk to me, sit with me at the pier, or would offer some goods from their booths they were selling. It was very kind of them to think of me when I came around, but I didn't like taking things from others. I didn't deserve them. I would take their delightful conversations and chatters, yes, but nothing physical as an item. Perhaps I still needed friends in my life. I had lost some recently. Some died of an illness. Some just... didn't want to talk to me anymore.

At the pier, I would practice playing my violin. Before, I was atrocious with a string-instrument. It sounded like two cats dying slowly and painfully in a back alley way. I would usually get in trouble for it. But, I was becoming better, the more I tried to remember on how to be quaint with my ability, and treat the violin as if it were my soul. Sometimes I played familiar songs to myself that would usually fall short, because I hadn't learned that far yet. Some would go on for minutes without end. I couldn't help it. I was strange enough to think Father could hear my violin playing from across the giant oceanside. Could he? Do currents carrying out the sounds of another world to the next? That would be fantastic.

Reginald began to start teaching me on how to play violin, too, actually. He knew I had a music Mentor already, but he still wanted me to be sharp and perfect. If it was taking my Mentor too long to accomplish that, then he would do it himself! That was just how Reginald worked. Stubborn mule he was, too. I wouldn't had known he played, hadn't he given me his own book of music sheets he collected from over the years of his teen-hood. I was happy to received the gift, and I began to think about trying to be more open with him. I didn't know how that would work, but it never hurt to try.

Sometimes, besides violin, I would play piano. It was more tough to learn than I had ever imagined. Every key and every note were something mind-bending, and I couldn't comprehend too fast. I had stumbling fingers when I played. I would try to sound like Mozart, but then I would end up sounding like a terrible train-wreck in the middle of a Summer thunderstorm blasting arrhythmical noise. God, it was so embarrassing to even try. I eventually gave up one month later.

And still no letter from Father.

_Father,_

_What is taking so long to have a letter of your responses? Are you too busy now?_

_My birthday just passed this August. I'm about 10-years-old now. I don't know - I just wanted you to know that... I think I'm getting more good with my violin playing. My music Mentor told me that I was at the peak of successful performing at a school concert soon, with the student-orchestra. I think I want to learn how to play cello next. It would look funny to carry around the over-sized instrument, though. Or I could just think of learning how to play the guitar... I'm not sure._

_But, I am still waiting for you. I don't know if you'll respond back, but I just wanted you to know that I'm still thinking of you. I'm still waiting for your return. Could you please write back? Tell me how you are? What're you doing these past three years? I'll be awaiting a letter again._

_With lots of love,  
Johanna._

My heart would feel empty after I would send the letter through the mailing ship. I knew I wouldn't get a letter back. Why was I even trying?

* * *

How long has it been now? Four years?

I am 13-and-a-half-years-old now, and still no letter from Father. And I was a broken teenager full of heart-break.

That wasn't healthy for a young girl to have. Not to be full of doubt, stress, and the dark thoughts of misery clouding my small mind. I couldn't help but be so sad and soul-shattered from the inside. Something happened to me. Something not very nice.

A month ago, I was almost sexually molested by one of the newer Templar men that joined the Order. It was on a quiet night, where the house stood still, as did the air.

The man's name, I daresay with a hiss of disgust, was _Enoch Maxwell_, an older man likely in his mid-thirties. He was a pretentious snob, but nothing compared to the good and kind-hearted folk, like my Father. I hated his attitude the day he set foot into the chateau. I hated him instantly. Now I had many reasons why.

What could I seriously remember from that horrid experience? Well... He had rotten teeth; I could remember seeing when I opened my eyes to find him hovering over me. His eyes gleaming darkly and his rugged face shadowed in cruel intentions. I was lucky to still have my butterfly-knife still hiding underneath of my pillow, for something like that to ever happen. Father gave me it. I saved myself that night, but I didn't kill Maxwell.

I was a clumsy fool with the blade. I grabbed the butterfly-knife and stuck it at the front of Maxwell's left-shoulder. I was actually aiming for his heart. Why did I aim left, I would never know. It was enough to draw him back, yelling in sheer pain when the knife's edge met his shoulder socket. I could have popped his arm right off if I wanted to!

Maxwell jumped off of me, stumbling back onto the floor with two-left feet. He fell down on his backside, holding onto his wounded shoulder for dear life that bled through his thick coat. Quickly I jumped out of bed and ran out of my room, running to find Reginald.

When I told Reginald about what happened, he was just about ready to backhand me or choke me. But he withheld those attempts with a frustrated inhalation, and just gave me a calm, sadistic look. His eyes were wide with pure, sheer anger, and his grin was malicious. I felt like finding a closet to hide in, and just as a fictional monster to hide me.

Reginald told me to never do it again. He told me… to obey. Obey every word.

I hated him from then on.

Maxwell never attempted the potential assault ever again, once he figured whose daughter I was. But, still, just the feeling of being close to a stranger's body like that... almost being violated by another foreign touch... I eventually had to pull myself together from that incident. I couldn't let it rule over me, while that pedophile was still inside the chateau. Reginald... I hated him, too. And I still do.

* * *

Everyday just felt more and more sad for me. My 14th birthday was soon to come around, and Father was still not home. Often when I would want to remember his face, I would look at a painted portrait of him that was in the living area of the place. When I would look at his painted face, I would usually wonder if his hair turned colors yet. If he had grown taller. If he began to get older. I would think often about the questions, while I knew that I was still growing up, reaching my mid-teens. I still missed him like mad, no matter how much I would want to strangle him for leaving me alone. I wanted to hate and love him at the same time. I wanted to scream and cry in joy whenever I could see him again.

I began to slowly halt on writing any more letters to America. It just felt like a lost cause for something I thought would eventually become worth-while. I began to focus more on writing my short stories of fictional adventures and school. But, you know what? I would still go to that pier.

I don't know what kept drawing me to that pier. Perhaps that small, small glimmer of hope twinkling in my heart that Father would return for me? I hoped.

Sometimes I wondered if Father had been killed in America. By a bunch of red coats or Patriots. Or the Idiot King. It made me more sad the more I thought it were true.

Until I had come to realize - I should ask Reginald. He always has the answers to the problems on my mind. I figured that he would have known what has gone wrong with my Father not responding to any of my letters. Maybe he would know his condition so far during his last leave.

Venturing quietly through the chateau halls, emptied with no staff or Templar men, I had figured the others had turned in for the night. Reginald said he had something important to do that day, so I figured he was finally back home for me to talk to him. It was awful silent, which was somewhat eerie to me. But I ignored it, as I drew closer to the crimson door of Reginald's study.

To my surprise, when I opened the door, he wasn't home yet.

His study was practically like a library, I thought. He had so many shelves of thick books and journals, more than I did. Of course I was jealous. A desk, smack-dab in the middle of the study caught my attention. I couldn't help but draw closer to the forbidden desk I was never allowed to draw near. Reginald would have me dead if I were this close, I remember. But there I was, standing close to the table-side, and cautiously scanning the desk surface with my eyes. There were scatters of written document and closed books, with a single ink-well and a quill sitting aside from the important scraps. I didn't want to touch anything.

Instead, making it likely more worse for myself, I dropped into his comfy chair. Ah, what a comfy seat! So very lax and pillow-like.

Once I was settled into the chair, I had decided to peek into the lower cabinets of the desk. The first one I opened was just full of more books stacked onto each other like a tower. Most of them looked old, so I didn't intent on picking up any of them. Though they looked unused and aged, I still wouldn't think of leaving my track. I closed that one and went to open the second one. And when I did, an sealed envelope fell out. Shit! Reginald would know someone was in here now! He's got an eye of a hawk, I remembered telling myself in a panic, as I hurried to pick up the envelope.

I turned it over to the front-side, just about to set it back into the opened cabinet, when I noticed something straight off the bat.

Haytham Kenway's name was written on it.

I halted, freezing where I was, almost feeling my heart stop.

Was this real? In my hand, a letter from Father? I thought I would have to pinch myself and make sure I wasn't hallucinating my desperation for his letters. And I did. I pinched myself in the arm hard, enough to make me squeak. I clenched my eyes shut for a good ten seconds, thinking I was dreaming an awful dream, until I reopened them, and still found the letter in my hand, and still sitting in Reginald's study. It was real!

I dropped out of the comfy chair and sat on the floor, feeling extra heavy with shock, as I now held the envelope in both my hands. I took a minute to reread my Father's name over and over again, familiar with his signature and what ink he wrote with. This was his hand-written signature.

Quick in desperation, I tore open the envelope and ripped out the folded letter. I tossed the opened envelope aside and unfolded the letter, being met with a letter filled with my Father's recognized penmanship. This letter was dated seven years ago...

_My beloved daughter,_

_Why are you writing these questions to me? Of course I am writing you! Did the last letter not make it through? I will be firm with the mailing ship later on, if this letter doesn't reach you on time. But I am overjoyed to read another letter from you, my poppet. Is that music Mentor treating you well? I trust he knows what he is doing, if you so highly-praise him this much. I hope you are doing well while I am gone. I still wonder if you are alright alone._

Before I could read on with moist eyes, I glanced into the opened cabinet, and found a treasure-trove of sealed envelopes... All of them from Father!

_This letter didn't go through either? Please, my pet, do not think I am ignoring you. I am not! _A letter from six years ago.

_Why are you thinking I am wanting to stay here, and just abandon you, girl? Of course I wouldn't leave you behind! Why are you saying these things? _Five years ago.

_Your words, my dear... I am sorry. I want to be there, but, I am permanently stationed here to continue my exploration. Please, don't always write these letters of anger to me. I hadn't once thought of forgetting you. God, it's been two years now. I could only imagine how grown you have become. _Four years ago.

_I am glad you are becoming more efficient with training, love, but are these letters seriously not coming through to you? Are you not receiving anything I write? I have all your letters, but you write as if I am not even trying to respond back. If you are truly not receiving anything I am writing, then... _Three years ago.

The cabinet was jam-packed with envelopes, all from my Father. There were so many crammed into a tiny space, I thought of how much effort it took to not let all these letters fall out without anyone realizing it. But I read them. Not all of them, but ones close enough for me to snatch out and tear open to read. I was crying tears of joy, and tears of despair. Father wrote me this entire time! Every year, every month, everyday. His words reached my heart as if he were right at my side speaking to me. I was shaking with happiness and fright as I continued reading Father's letters.

The last letter I read was something that made my heart ignite like a canon fire. It was dated for the present year I was 14-years-old in. He didn't start with a heading, and he didn't end it with a sincerely. In three bold words scratched in deep with a heavy dose of ink, Father wrote me;

_I'M COMING HOME._

"Johanna!" A scream plunged me out of my aghast state, pulling me straight back into my dark reality, when I realized too late that it was Reginald's voice I heard. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" He fumed, more than I had ever heard him shout with wrath. I flinched hard, hugging the last letter close to my chest, as I lifted my head up to look at him. He stood over me, behind the desk, with eyes wide with fury and teeth bare like a wolf's on attack. "You're not suppose to be here..." He snarled lowly, continuing to watch me shrink beneath his intense stare.

But I didn't want to let these letters go! "You hid Father's letters from me!" I boldly shouted back at him, still feeling hot tears sting in my eyes. "He wrote me ALL THESE YEARS, while I just sat around and thought he had abandoned me! YOU hide all of these letters from ME!" I shot up to stand upright, looking him straight in the eye with a hard glare. "WHY?! WHY DID YOU MAKE ME GO THROUGH **HELL**?!"

It was a bad move to scream back at someone like Reginald.

_Smack!_

He hit me in the face! I felt over to the side on the floor from the sharp slap to the face. It forced me down, dropping the opened letter from my grasp. I held my hand over my stinging cheek, feeling an ooze of blood drip out of my mouth when I had bit my inner-cheek.

"YOU INGRATE!" Reginald seethed in a scream, dropping down to throw me on my back, and plunged his large, rough hands right around my slim throat. I croaked out in shock, flying my small hands up to his wrists to helplessly try prying his own hands off. "You were just like your pretentious snob of a Father, my dear. So curious and willing to learn." He hissed with a sadistic grin twisting on his features as he gripped his hands tighter around my throat, pressing his thumbs deep onto my pulse-spots at the sides of my neck. I choke out, hearing myself squeak in agony to the hands literally strangling the life out of me. "But, just like family goes - I assume - you are just as fucking stubborn as a mule! You don't listen. You don't understand. But I'll _get rid of that _problem."

I knew what he meant instantly. He was going to kill me.

I kicked and struggled under his tightened hold, feeling tears stream down my cheeks as my mouth hung open to the force of his powerful hands that were squeezing the life out of me. My face reddened and my hands desperately clawed at his arms and face to make him stop. But, Reginald wouldn't let up, and I was seeing spots of black coming into view before my vision. I was fading! No, not now!

I teared hard, willing for all of the madness to stop. Just to make it go away.

And before I could fall into my own demise, a figure behind Reginald came into my blurred sight, and lifted something over the tormentor's head.

_Whack!_

Was what I heard, at the same time as Reginald was knocked off of my body, and onto the carpet floor. I gasped in hard, my vision clearing up fast to sharpened, and coughed out in sheer pain when my closed-up throat was burning from the inside. I closed my eyes tight, and my uneven breathing ragged. I held my hand over my bruising neck, as I was met with the sounds of voices in my ears.

"How fucking _dare _you?"

Was what I heard from the stranger, before Reginald let out a merciless scream and was stopped with another hit into his face. The sound of what was the blade's edge of a sword hammered into his face profusely. I shot open my eyes and turned my head to see who was there. He looked at the man attacking Reginald. His back was turned and I couldn't see his face. But, the cloak and coat... I knew...

The man continued to hammer down the sword straight into Reginald's disfigured face, letting out everything on him. I had to watch in horror as blood splattered out in thick layers onto the floor, and hearing the noise of sharp steel meet with a crackled flesh-out face. I still panted hard, but I managed to turn over and pull myself upright to my knees, watching still as Reginald's corpse was delivered more and more beatings.

I was scared, and delighted at the same time, to see my potential killer being killed.

After a long, agonizing minute later, the stranger stopped, breathing hard, and holding the bloodied sword above his head. Examining Reginald's torn-up face with only his eyes, he tossed the sword aside, and stood upright from the dead man's body. I watched with caution as the man's shoulders heaved and fell, with his back still turned to me. I didn't want to move. I was frightened that he would want to tear me apart as well, if I made a sound.

But then he turned around to me, still breathing heavily, as his eyes made contact with mine.

I gulped hard when I saw his face, eyes widened before my mouth dropped open.

"... F-Father...?" I asked in dismay, heart pounding straight out of my chest, when I saw a smile creak onto his face with a sigh. "Is that you?" I stood up slowly as I could, with hands to myself, because I was still unsure. But I was despairing for it to be true.

Once more the stranger blinked through blood-soaked eyelids, wiping them away with just an index finger as he continued to give me the most gentle smile. The front of his clothes were covered in blood stains from Reginald. But, I knew those clothes anywhere. There would only be one man that I knew that would wear so much warm clothes in any given day of the year, no matter what. The cloak, the cape, the long coat with gold buttons, and the pure-white cravat.

The man offered one opened hand out to me, lifting it up quietly, making me flinched slightly. "Johanna," He said my name. His voice! Heavy with a pompous British accent heavy with and and low with purpose. Yet soothing to my ears, as I knew my Father's voice. "Don't you remember who your Father is?"

New tears filled my eyes with a heart-break full of joy and shaking forlorn. Finally, with my guard down, I ran into my Father's waiting arms. I didn't care if the blood on his shirt would stain my face or my arms as I wrapped them around his lean torso. I buried my face on his chest and bawled, holding him tight. As I cried hard, finally releasing the stress and worry from over the agonizing 7 years I awaited for him, I could feel Father's arms wrap around my back, with his hand over my cranium to pet me as comfort.

My heart fired up suddenly with so much of my emotions bursting. I was so happy, yet I was so furious with him at the same time. I turned my face from his chest and gripped my hand into a balled fist, bringing it back up to hit him against the chest angrily. I hit hard, I thought, but not enough to harm him.

"YOU LEFT ME!" I bawled more, hitting him another time in his chest. "YOU MADE ME SIT AND WAIT! YOU MADE ME WAIT FOR THAT SHIP TO BRING YOU BACK! You, you...!" I drifted off from my rant as I felt Father carefully take my fist into his hand. I couldn't stop feeling the hot tears run down my cheeks as he held onto my hand again.

"... I'm sorry." Father quietly apologized to me. "I never wanted to make you feel this way... I never thought you felt so much rage and sadness like this." He stepped back a bit to kneel down to my height. He looked me straight in the eye, with his hands on both sides of my face to wipe at the trails of tears with his thumbs. "I see so much you've withheld in your eyes, poppet..."

I wanted to say more, but I didn't want to pour out everything yet. There were still some things I wanted to keep back, until I knew him once again.

Father's fingers fell upon the side of my neck to witness the darkening bruises around my throat. He was shocked as to how deep they were becoming, and reddening with anger as he tried to gently brush his thumb over my new marks. I winced slightly, making him quickly draw his hand back from my neck.

"These monsters. These fiends. These... these..." His voice was full of utmost rage, growling as he glanced back at Reginald's unrecognizable face. He gave it a sharp glare, before he looked back to me with his eyes shining with tears filling them up. "I'll never go far from you. Never again, Johanna." He said in a hopeful voice, making this verbal promise to me as he pet the side of my head again to assure me.

But I wasn't alone to shed tears. My Father's eyes were also moist and glossy with fresh tears, yet he dared not to shed them. It was just like him, though. Always the one to hold back his own feelings as I did. He would never show his innermost hidden emotions for anyone. But I.

"Let's go." Father brushed my loose bangs aside. "We're leaving everything behind."

I didn't say anything. I blinked one more time to let the water fall, and I nodded my head firmly to that.

That day, I was not the same, ever again.

* * *

_**Holy shit**_**, that was a long chapter. But! I really hoped you enjoyed reading it!**

**Johanna is my OC, just to let ya'll know. Description? Well, I imagined her to be a spitting-image of Ellie (The Last Of Us), and a bit of Lara Croft (Tomb Raider) - but with darker hair (same hairstyle), and more pale skin. Same green eyes, though, and different attitude, obviously.**

**I dunno if I should continue this in a second chapter or not. I'll think about it. But, in the meantime, enjoy reading this. :)**


	2. His Prerogative

**Okay, I decided, and I will write a second chapter! Because I love my darling OC, Johanna. Let's see how this one turns out, hm.**

* * *

I was 14-years-old when I had left home with Father.

As overjoyed as I was to see him once more - to finally be reunited at his side again - my heart went out for the country I was born and raised in. England, how I would miss that land of my dreams I wanted to fulfill. My school would miss me, I knew. My friends would wonder where I had gone, but then forget after two days of their own daily lives rummaging through their buzzing thoughts. The merchants at the docks would surely miss me, for I was the only one that would acknowledge them as human beings, and not money-grubbing cheaters. There would be many things I would miss about my homeland.

But I was still accompanied with my favorite violin. I couldn't be able to find my violin case for the instrument, so I just had to bring it exposed onto the ship we boarded. It was the exact ship as I recalled Father boarding onto 7 years ago, leaving for America. I was excited for adventure out on the opened sea, but nervous about the future-outcome. I wasn't scared of the older pirates on the ship. I supposed it were because I had been around the Templar men for so long. I hugged my violin close to my chest, while I walked up the boarding ship with Father after we had our luggage taken to the lower decks.

When the ship was set for sail, I sat at the end of the vessel to watch as the docks of England were becoming farther and farther. The foggy land of my home was becoming drenched in the mist after we had reached out further to the sea. I stayed to watch my country disappear until it was all but a tiny dark figure of land. Clouds of fog covered out what was left of the spot of home in my heart, yet my mind was still there. I finally turned away with a last goodbye to England.

The sail to America would be a long and painfully boring one, Father told me. He said that it took him almost three months to reach his destination. Just hearing that made me about ready to start whining and groaning like a agitated tyke. I wish I had packed a few more novels on my leave. I could only remember bringing about six fictional books, and just my new blank journal. I could play violin, I told myself, but will I annoy the other shipmates? I wasn't scared of them. I just didn't want to get on anyone's bad side for the long trip to America.

I just began to write my daily life on the ship instead, quietly being a good girl.

A week after leaving home, Father was beginning to try seeing what was so different about me now.

7 years gone, and he's come back to see that his little girl wasn't so little anymore. Sure, I was only 14, but I felt older by heart. Father would usually pat the flat of his palm over my head, as if he were mentally sizing me up by height. Before, I was just tall enough to reach his waist. Now, I was up to his chest. Sometimes he would run his fingers through my loose bangs and look closely at my hair color. It was once a bright brunette color, shorter, too. But I let my hair grow out, and I would always like to put it up in a ponytail with a blue ribbon I found back home. My bangs were not too long, but not too short, and I would enjoy letting them freely loosen along the sides of my head and face. My hair color had darkened over the years, to where it were almost a brown-black tone.

It would usually be like that. I was only guessing that Father wasn't saying anything about my changes, just because he was so surprised of how much I had grown. My skin was more pale, and my eyes had grown larger with a more bright-green. Usually he would see how thin my limbs were, and how slender my torso was. I'll admit, I was rather too skinny for a child. I just never found it fun to eat around a bunch of Templar men without Father at my side, which was why I just began to drift from that enjoyment of eating. I think becoming paranoiac was also a cause...

But he wasn't the only one examining.

I, too, was looking at how much has changed about him. The first thing I noticed was that his hair had begun to turn gray with age. When I was 7, I could remember Father's hair being a deep black color. He still kept his hair back in a red band, and still wore the funny tricorn hat I remembered always giggling about when I was a toddler. Now it was normal to wear. His features had begun to crack with age as well, seeing wrinkles carved into his face. When he smiled at me, I saw the crow's feet at the corners of his large dark eyes become visible, along with lines at the corners of his lips exposing with his age. I couldn't help but see how pale he, too, had become. Was it always cold in America? Like Alaska? I would find out soon.

But, even if Father were becoming old, I still believed that he was the most handsome man I had ever known. He was still tall, lean, charming and a damnedest snob to the edge of his own good. I couldn't look up to a more amazing man than he.

"Do you know how to play, love?" Father asked me, noticing that I hadn't played my favorite violin since we boarded the ship.

We both sat together in his room on lower decks, merely spending time together to talk and chatter. When he realized how I had been reluctant to play my violin, he finally decided to push me back to the instrument. I was still unsure to play, wondering if I would annoy anyone on lower decks. But, Father wouldn't take that for an excuse, I knew that.

Father took the violin into his hands, examining it closely with his eyes. It was a normal violin. Wooden and reused over and over again by my practices, but strong and sturdy and not ready to give in yet. It was 6 years of age now. The strings were wires of horsehair that my Mentor had gotten me the first day one of the strings snapped from being tuned wrongly. The snapped string scratched at my left-brow deeply, leaving a permanent mark over my eye. I knew Father noticed that scar, but he didn't seem to want to address anything about it. I understood.

After close examination on the violin, Father handed it back to me with a wide smile. "Play something nice for me." He asked.

I felt my face blush with embarrassment. "I don't know... I'm not that great." I tried evading the question, but Father wouldn't let up. "What if I annoy the other shipmates?"

"Then they will have to think hard about what they'll say when they face me." He darkly grinned.

I made a face, but I didn't want to go on more with rejecting his request. As nervous as I was to play, I took the violin and found my bow. I positioned the violin up to my shoulder and brought out the neck with my freehand that were pressed lightly over the strings, and pressed my chin on the chinrest. I wasn't entirely nervous about making a scene. I was just nervous about playing a song well for Father. I wanted to let him know that I was doing fine with violin. Or, perhaps let him know something about myself in the notes? I wouldn't know.

At the right moment where my heart felt at slight rest, I lifted my bow over the stings and began to play a song entirely familiar to me. Something my music Mentor made me practice daily on end. It was a homemade song called "Memories With The Moon". I remember my music Mentor saying that it was all inspiration of the stars and moon and children he raised that persuaded him to create this piece. I was more than happy to learn the song.

As I began to play the song, with bow caressing the violin strings gently with a rhythmic touch and soothe, I was finally finding the solace in fiddling notes with a small smile on my face. My tension began to slowly thrum down with every tune I played quietly to myself. But, I didn't play as quietly as I thought. My expressive violin played loudly, enough to be heard echoing from the lower decks to topside. It was only natural for a violin to be heard, to be loud and proud, as I would describe it. I didn't seem to realize it, though, just because this song made me feel at home once more, silently bringing me down to a comfort level.

Father listened to every note I played. He sat with his desk chair faced to me, attentively taking in every tune that flowed through the room. I remained standing. I wouldn't know his expression he made while I fiddled away the homemade carnage. I was too deep with my music that I had my eyes closed, drifting back to my peaceful mind as I could feel the music dance gracefully. The rough wires of the strings grabbed at my fingertips with focus at the same time, keeping me at normal pace of track to sharply concentrate on the song I performed. A mixture of goodness.

After a while of playing, I finally ended the song with a slow drift of the last note, and took my bow off the strings. When the song had finished, Father clapped his hands loudly, with a merrily wide grin beaming on his face, and eyes sparkling with delight. I grinned back with my heart-lifted high, and bashfulness firing up my face and ears as I lowered my violin from my shoulder.

"You are an excellent violinist, poppet!" He told me with a gleeful voice. "You play so well. I can just see it in your eyes that you are a soul player by heart."

"... Really?" I asked too quietly.

"Of course! I couldn't be more proud of you."

My heart almost skipped a beat to that. I was now finally committed to playing violin from that day forward.

* * *

Three months of sailing by ship, waiting for whatever to dawn, we finally reached America.

We headed for the docks of a city called Boston. A very wide area for just being at the docks of a new world. It still felt slightly like home, which help me become brave enough to walk off the ship with Father at my side, and down onto the pier. My first step onto America.

And right when I had marched off the ship, my Father's name was being called from across the pier.

"Master Kenway!" He was an older man, same as my Father's age. He had jet-black hair, a mustache smack-dab underneath his nose, and these bright pale blue eyes. They were ridiculously pale, to where they almost seemed see-through. It was almost intense to stare back at the man when he stared back. They were awkwardly piercing to my very mind and soul. But he wasn't a bad man.

"Charles." Father greeted the overeager man back. "I trust everything is well."

"Of course, Sir. And you as well?"

Father nodded to the man named Charles. "All very well..." Father almost said with a chipper, yet sadistic, tone of voice. He said it as if Charles was meant to know, and from the way Charles gave him a slow nod, he comprehended. I didn't know what they were on about, but I didn't want to.

I was too shy to say much. I just stood close to Father's side with my hands together. I supposed the closeness I had to my Father's side made Charles finally realize that I was right there, as his eyes darted down straight into mine. His brows rose and eyes slightly widen with surprise. He looked on longer at me with a puzzled, yet astonished face, turning slightly to look more clearly at me.

After a moment of analyzing me, Charles glanced back to Father. "Is this the one?" He asked him, gesturing his hand at me.

Father nodded again, with a small smile on his face. "My dearest Johanna."

His name was Charles Lee, a devoted man that sympathized with the Templar cause. He and other men in America as well, but I had yet to meet them. Charles seemed to have been one loyal man to Father, showing great signs of joy whenever he was told to do something. I only thought he would be mad to be so giddy on being controlled by another person. Especially one that had just became the newest Grandmaster of The Colonies.

Charles and I shook hands as he studied my face more with a closer perspective. I wondered why he stared so much at me. Was there something on my face?

"Johanna is a lovely name, my dear." Charles smiled at me genuinely.

I blushed to the compliment. "Yes, it is..." I looked off to the side with a shy smile quirked on my face.

After that meet, the three of us left to a place called Fort George.

* * *

I met the other men in the Templar cause at the fort. A strange bunch of men grouped together to form a team, and my Father would lead the pack. I didn't know whether to be threatened or laugh with them, as they were a mixture of spontaneous killers and serious nitwits. Of course, serious! Even the drunkard, Thomas Hickey, was the most serious one there, despite being off his hinges at times when he drank too much he couldn't handle. But I was use to being around drunkards like Hickey. There hadn't been a time where I hadn't ran into a passed out drinker in the streets of England...

Just as much as he respected Father with everything he had, Charles Lee had also respected me. I only guessed it was because I was Father's blood that he would respect me, yet I didn't like the way he would look at me. Charles had a look of unsure and pondering rambles going on through his eyes that would play visible in those see-through eyes that I would constantly think about here and then on.

But I wouldn't bring it up to Father so much. I would only guess that Charles Lee was just that intense with staring at people, like a _strange_ hobby...

Beginning a life again with Father wouldn't be so easy.

Years apart, and we almost felt like strangers. Even though we got along fine, there were still things to unfold beneath the years of secrecy and untold thoughts of each other that we wouldn't admit to. Sometimes I wondered if it were either Father or I that were being too stubborn to say a word about each others' experiences apart in separate worlds. I would ponder on the world we lived in now. Things have seriously changed all around. And so has Father.

I remember that, when I was very young, Father gave me a look of pride and joy to begin with. But now, as I was 14 years of age, he looked at me differently. Yes, he smiled at me still, but I couldn't help but feel the sense of... dread and gloom. His eyes were filled with something dark beneath his pride. He hid something deep, and I wanted nothing more but to figure out what it was that he was keeping from me. But what was it?

I could have only guessed what, when one night, a month after I settled into the fort, I overheard Father and Charles speaking to one another inside of a storehouse.

Father sounded so... sad. "She looks so much like her..." Father rubbed his face tiredly, with his tricorn hat off and on the desk he sat in front of, arms up on the surface and putting his weight down on them. "Can it be? All the demons in Hell are sent to torment me?" He asked his right-hand man with a somber voice.

"It's not your fault." Charles tried to assure Father. "It was never your fault, Sir."

What were they talking about? It made Father almost cry. It made Charles want to fight these "demons" and save his Master. It made me stand in the dark of all the mischief that was brewing high above the boiling pot, yet I couldn't cool it down. I didn't understand why Father acted that way, but... all I could think of was this "her" that he mentioned before. Who was this female he spoke about? A girl? A woman?

Secrets became more harder to speak of coherently. I was still in a daze of things, no matter how hard I tried to think clearly on those topics.

A new page of my thoughts once more, in a journal hidden from Father.

* * *

"I want to go."

I said in almost a demanding voice. Father's eyebrow twitched to the poster I pointed at plastered on a shop's wall, just outside on the seemingly familiar street of a nighttime Boston.

The poster I pointed at was a sign announcing the upcoming Opera of a famous play called _Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street_. I was a big fan of the novel itself, the first time I read it back in England. A play of the well-known story of the heart-broken killer and his devious work was something I didn't want to avoid. I must have read that novel at least a hundred times, always amazed by the well-written work and illustrated drawings of Sweeney Todd and his murders.

"... Why?" Father all but lowly asked, sounding not-too-glad about the news.

"Because I love the novel!" I petulantly defended. "I read it... a hundred times over! I would be so amazing to see it come to life at an Opera!"

I didn't know what made Father reject, but reject he did. "No, poppet." He shook his head at me.

"Why!" I whined, pouting and ready to stamp my foot. "Why not, Father?!"

"Because..." He tried to think of a good reason why I couldn't go. "... Because I said so."

My expression fell, and I swore I felt my eye twitch with irritation. He ALWAYS said that! Even to any other man in the Order, he would only give that response!

"It's my favorite, though!" I continued to whine and press on. "Well, can't I bring someone else to go with me?"

"I-" Father halted on his words, thinking for a moment on my words. "-And who would you bring, Johanna?"

I was about to answer him, until I realized that I had no one to bring with me. I had no new friends in Boston. I didn't think the others at the fort would be anywhere interested in seeing an Opera. I would have said Charles Lee or Thomas Hickey, but I didn't know them that well enough to think that they would say yes.

"Can't I go alone?" I tried.

"No." Father immediately answered.

I let out a frustrated groan finally, as Father ignored the response and walked passed me to continue our casual stroll into town.

I eventually turned and caught up with him, still not ending my questioning. "Why can't I go? It's just a play!" I continued to ask.

"We've more better work to be done, my love. You can't just run off and see a play, while we are on the path of fixing this damnation of a country, can you?"

I crossed my arms childishly. "It's not fair, Father. I REALLY want to see this play..." And then, an curious thought in my mind convinced me to ask, "have you seen this play, Father?"

I paused to respond to that. But just his silence made me certain that he did before. Another life he did, but when?

"See?! You went to see it! Now it's my turn to see it!" I barked, pointing at him accusingly. "The Opera can't be that bad if you went to see it. Maybe dull, but it should be fun to get away from everything for a while to go and watch a musical. Boy, it would be so much fun-"

"JOHANNA." Father halted on his trek, stomping one foot to stop. I jumped to the blast of his voice startling me to stop my yapping. He looked over his shoulder at me, with his dark eyes clouding with something meaningful, but I didn't know what. "For the last time, you are NOT going. Am I clear?" He spoke in the most firm and raised voice I had ever heard him use in a lifetime. It was heavy with a stern tone, and a serious growl.

I flinched visibly to how he spoke, and just glanced away with my hands twisting together somberly. "... Okay." I quietly nodded.

Father studied my reaction for a second and let out an exhale. "Oh, poppet... I apologize." He turned fully to me. "I didn't mean to raise my voice like that."

I just shook my head, pressing my lips together as I looked back up to him with a guilty face. I didn't know what to say.

"I just..." He tried to find something positive to say to me. "... it's just that, well... I wouldn't know..." He shrugged his arms hopelessly.

I inhaled a large amount if air through my nostrils and dropped my shoulders to exhalation. "It's okay." I dropped my arms back to my sides and nodded my head. "Maybe another time I can see the Opera..." I lastly said, before I walked off without him. I could feel a sense of Father's own guilt run down his spine as those were my last words, but I just wanted to turn away to think for myself.

* * *

"Oh, that play? Ye'h, 'aytham's seen that Opera." Hickey told me.

Back at Fort George, I couldn't help but turn from sad to dead serious for an explanation for my Father's strange behavior on the play. Just listening to my Father's words hurt me first, but then just released my innermost curiosity to figure him out. I didn't want to ask Charles Lee, or any of the other men. They were loyal to Father, and wouldn't let out any secrecy of his past. But Hickey...

"Ye'h... 'e went t' see the play, and right when 'e comes 'ome, 'aytham's bawlin' like mad!" He exaggeratedly threw up his arms, lucky enough to fall backwards off his tilted-back chair with his feet kicked up on the empty table. "Charles went t' see what was wrong wit' the boss, and all I hears is 'aytham screamin' and shoutin' crazy stuff! ... I think I was too drunk t' r'member what 'e was hollerin' 'bout, though."

"Hmm." I hummed loudly with my brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, as I stared hard at a wall across the room. "Curious..." I wondered. "Curiouser and curiouser..."

"'Ey, dear." Hickey lightly punched my petite shoulder to grab my attention. "Don't be goin' off and tellin' the boss I gawked 'bout this, m'kay?"

I smiled widely and nodded. "Sure! No problem."

Now I had EVERY reason to see that play!

"But how am I going to get inside that damn Opera?!" I screamed high to the Heavens, making Hickey startled and topple out of his leaning-chair backwards.

* * *

**Mother of God, a Chapter Two! And my mind, in shambles and creativity.**

**Thanks for reading. Another chapter for the team, soon.**


	3. Behind The Book

**Chapter Three of the tale of wolves and rabbits witnessing the biggest surprise on their lives.**

* * *

_I may have not built this Kingdom, but I'll make sure I protect it from you._

* * *

"A play should be enjoyed by its loyal fans."

"Well, of course, but... I can't go."

I was inside of a bookshop just around the corner from the Green Dragon Tavern, purchasing yet another fictional novel on horror and fantasy.

The bookkeeper I had quickly made friends with was a dark-haired and fair-skinned young lad, the same age as I, who helped run the shop with his elder Mother and older Brother. His name was - as funny as it sounds - was Aiden Aiden. I don't know _why _his first and last name were mirrored, but I could only figure that a certain Mother or Father weren't being coherent with the naming of his birth to the Doctor that handed his rights to him as an American citizen with a birth certificate.

Aiden was a nice boy. He was awful smart with books and powerfully intelligent with his teen-hood revolved around science and politics and logic, just as he told me that his Father was. But even with a strong mind, Aiden was not the strongest element of physical lifting. Skinny and boringly studious, he was usually scared of any noise or object quick, and could never stand up to a spider crawling on the wall of the shop. Yet, then again, neither could I. But he still remained to keep his gentlemen-like stature, no matter how "horrid" the tiniest insect would make him flinch and force him to jump on top of the counter like a petrified cat.

"Why not?" Aiden asked me, as he went to the filled bookshelf across the shop floor to fetch a novel I requested to buy. "It's just an Opera. It's not as if the murders and story itself were anything realistic, even if fellow readers try to make it sound true..."

"I know, right?!" I threw my arms up once. "There's nothing wrong with going! I just... I just don't know why Father takes so much offense on me, asking."

Aiden shrugged, retrieving a black-covered novel from the fourth shelf and turned back around to walk across the floor to the counter. "Perhaps he found something sad throughout his first visit to the play?" He suggested as he walked around to the other side of the counter. "Maybe... Maybe he thinks of something reoccurring to the scenes that play out?"

I narrowed my eyes, thinking on that note. "... Hm." I hummed with my lips pressed together. "Interesting reasoning."

"Oh yes! It has to be." He jovially announced as I fished into my breast pocket to find the coins I brought to buy the book. "The story is so riveting with one thing ringing true to those that watch the Opera themselves, that only the most guilty will be tortured psychologically enough to speak the truth. That answer..."

At the same time, Aiden and I said the answer in sly unison, "... _Shame_."

"It isn't the first of plays to make a man wear guilt like a cloak." I chirped wickedly.

"And it's not the last of any human being to feel the dark." Aiden added in.

Perhaps that's what made my Father so disagreeable to me about the play? He felt something out of the entire Opera that made him feel a rebirth of something he hid well beneath his pride and smile. If a play could do that much, then maybe he really was tormented by demons of his past. I mean, yes, we all have our shame to carry on our shoulders, no matter where or who we are. But if it triggers that easily, then what sort of secret are they hiding? Could it be talkative? Could it become visible for the other worry-warts to behold?

Perhaps I should ask! _If_ I am not dead the next day!

"Oh, I know!" Aiden stopped me with his arms out and over the counter-top to grab my shoulders. "We should go together!"

I dramatically gasped to that plan. "That's brilliant!" I smiled widely, eyes flashing with excitement. I felt ready to cavort, hadn't Aiden held my shoulders to make me stand still and not jump around jovially. "Take my money, you braininess genius!" I slammed down four bronze coins down onto the counter surface hard.

"Much obliged."

"You are allowed to go, Aiden?" I suddenly asked.

"Of course." He shrugged one shoulder with a smile. "Anything that another loyal fan could do to see the terror."

"Then it's a date." I announced.

Aiden made a slightly shocked expression to those words. As much as he tried to keep his proper posture, he couldn't hide the fact that his face was becoming red as a beet, and ears firing up enough to make steam spew out like a chimney. "S-Sure!" He tried to keep an even voice. "A... date!"

"A _DATE_?!" I lastly heard his Mother hollering out with utmost surprise in her voice from the back of the shop, before I quickly scampered out of the place and back out into the dirt streets of Boston.

While outside, I stood just a few feet away from the front of the shop, to open my satchel I carried with my and put my new novel inside, and all at once within seconds-

_Snatch!_

"THIEF!" I screamed, being roughly shoved aside by an older man that had snatched my satchel out of my grasp in the process.

I stumbled backwards, not falling over, and quickly recollected myself to chase after the burglar as he thundered straight across the street in such speed. But, I was fast too! I didn't know what this man wanted from my satchel, but he was making a honorable effort of picking up his feet and darting for no apparent reason. I was hot on his trail, just a few more feets away from the damnedest thief.

Quickly, finding a post of horses feeding on hay just on the side of a barber shop, the man suddenly jumped upon one of the untied mares and quickly rode off with it. Oh, but I wasn't the one to give in so quickly. This meant war, dammit! Copying the thief's action - even though it would likely bruise my reputation as a good girl - I hopped on the saddled back of a white mare, that was also untied, and rode off after the older man. I lastly heard the shopkeeper shouting angry words towards my way, as I had likely stolen his mare. But I promised to bring it back!

"You're _SO _in for it now!" I shouted towards the man's way, as he made a sudden effort of running through a bustling street of citizens clamoring about. I tried my hardest to not hit one person walking by, but it was difficult not to hit a woman in the face with the horse's chest or ram into an oncoming wagon full of products. Oh man, I knew I was in for it as well for causing such a mess. Hopefully no one knew about Father.

Wherever this thief was heading way beyond my thought process, as we had likely sped through the streets of Boston, and were heading towards the woodland area of the back of the town. Giant trees and greenery trails of nature told me he was either going to make a last-ditch effort within the narrow paths of brush or somewhere else that could throw me off my trek.

Along the way of riding through the dirt paths within the green of nature's cheering crowd of tall whistling trees and onlooking brush of leaves and small animals being startled by the thundering hooves speeding through the quieted world, I was almost close to reaching out for my burglar's shoulder. His mare must have begun to lose breath, as did my own mare.

Just when I had him in the palm of my hand's reach, the man suddenly jumped off the mare's back, without making an effort of halting the poor creature. My eyes shot open as I had to quickly halt my own horse on her trek as I turned back around to see where he had gone.

He had mistakenly jumped into a steep hillside, rolling down the dipped wall of grass and dirt like a damn log.

"YOU'RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE!" I hollered, jumping off the mare and still chased him. At the top of the steep hill, I jumped freely, with my feet plummeting first into the lush grass. Keeping my standing posture, the bottom soles of my boots acted like skates, and started sliding me down upright down the dipped and smoothed grassy wall like an iced lake I had skated upon last midwinter. I threw my hands in the air and shouted, "I can fly!" while still sliding down on my feet after the rolling thief, literally sliding in the speed of light.

I'm sure I caught some strange looks from farmers that were also standing upon the steep hill with their cattle harmlessly passing through.

Oh what fun it was.

Straight down the hill, the thief had finally stopped his rolling-trek, thrown into a flat area, luckily missing the boulder he was about to plummet into. But even with aching his body with that failed effort of running off, the older man was still overeager enough to jump upright, recollect his thoughts while handling my satchel, and quickly turned to start running, again!

Once I had made it to the end of my slid, I jumped onto flat land the same as he, and started running after him once more. He was a damn good runner, but I was just as quick on my hot-feet, both of us scorching through the grass and brush just to evade and capture each other to whatever goal. I just wanted my satchel back! It wasn't as if I was going to _kill _the man! Maybe.

"S-Stop!" I breathlessly called out, feeling my legs slow down. "My satchel...!"

_Snap._

Suddenly, the sound of a thick twig and rope snapping altogether, igniting a trap just beneath the thief's foot – the loop of the rope flew up, wrapping around his left-ankle, tightening fast around his limb and causing him to fly up in reverse towards the sky feet first. His body flipped quickly due to excessive weight of a log the rope was tied pulled his body upward. When his body flipped around, his head collided with the ground hard, causing the side of his cranium to ooze out blood from a blunt bruise forming fast, as his body was lifted high into the tree's tall structure.

Once I caught up with the helpless trapped thief, I took a moment stop and take large gulps of air to catch my breath. But with a few deep breaths into my system, I managed to bark out laughing at the older man in mockery.

"Ha! A thief caught in his own demise!" I wickedly grinned down at him through more heavy pants. "And I think that satchel… belongs to a certain missus!" I reached my hand out and snatched the strap of my satchel straight out of the thief's loosened grip. "Now," I tried speaking clearly, "I shall leave you here-"

But before I could go on with my mockery, I heard a sound behind my back that sounded like a twig snapping by a heavy foot. Quickly I spun around defensively and was expecting to be surprised by another accomplice or stranger of a man.

But, instead, I was approached by a very young Native boy. With my mind processing the image of this lad right before me, I guessed that he was just a 6 or 7 year old tyke. He was awful short, reaching my waist. His hair was pitch black and medium-length, with some thick strands traditionally braided in red bands. His clothes were something traditional I had read through picture-novels that spoke about the Native tribes and their clothing ideals. He wore something I considered to be casual Native American garb. It wasn't flashy with feathers or jewelry like the books had shown me. It was just plain and brown and normal.

His skin was far, but not entirely as dark as I thought it would surely be. His eyes were dark as well, to where they seemed like black orbs. I was unable to read them properly and understand what was buzzing through his mind at the moment. But I knew I must have made him intimidated, from the way he began to slowly back off. I held my hands up in the air, close to my face, to let him know that I wasn't armed.

"Hello…" I greeted through a heavy sigh. "I-"

But before I could say something, the Native boy left turned and went running as fast as he could.

"Wait!" I tried, but the boy was quick on his bare-feet, running off behind the brush, and likely out of my distance to catch up by then.

I couldn't chase after him. Even if it were just a glimpse of something new I discovered on my own, something deep told me that it wouldn't be the last of witnessing that young Native lad again...

* * *

I was never involved with whatever Father and the other Templar men were planning. Mostly because I had always asked Father to never have me involved in his huge task on their next steps on taking out renounce leaders of the Red and Blue sides. When they would come back to a meeting of something particular, I wouldn't try to offend with my presence. Whenever they had their meet, I would retire to my room or the study to read a good book or write in my journal. Or I would run off to the outside world, while Father's back was turned to me.

And when I mentioned that I would usually run off to the outside world, I meant it.

The city of Boston was equally clamored with British soldiers and citizens that would crowd the streets like bustling streets should be. I wanted to usually walk around through the streets when it was a cool and sunny afternoon by myself, but I didn't like the being around others so much as I didn't mind back in the fort. I suppose it was because of the constant paranoia of a set of eyes scanning me out and realizing that I was a Templar child. I didn't want to be seen so very much in public for that, being pointed out as a Daughter of the antiheroes that could either fix or destroy the world.

Ah yes. Father had told me everything a Templar truly seek. I remember his words well like a song with memorable lyrics in a chorus. And yet, even if they sounded as if they harmlessly seek purpose and order among the world or country, their intentions for those goals always sounded so... violent. To kill another man for what the Order needed to have their path cleared for a New World just felt so insane. I knew death was usually an answer for those that would harm another fellow Templar, but, I would still think we are being selfish.

Not only did Father talk about the Order, but he also talked of those who greatly opposed the Templar Cross.

They were called Assassins.

An overzealous Creed of skillful "hit-men" that were on the hunt for any active Templar trying to deceive them by trying to go their own way. Assassins were there to stop the Order from reaching arm's length to creating a New World full of order. One that would change humanity forever. The Creed worked in the dark, to serve the light. Father said their motto as if he knew them personally in another life.

What were the goals of an Assassin? To try and create the chaos with the usage of a fragment of history Father said was called Eden.

Eden? What was he on about? Reginald never mentioned this once to me.

There were so much to be exhumed from the grave again. I just had to find the strength in myself to dig up the coffin of dead memories out of its resting place.

"Ignore, ignore," I told myself quietly ask I heard Johnson's voice speaking up after Lucipher had stated a comment about their next plan of action. I decided to retire into my Father's study, remembering that my new collection of a book series on witchcraft was still sitting on the topside of his bookshelf. I quietly closed the door behind me, not wanting to make a noise and draw attention. Once it was closed, I twirled around and clapped my hands together. "Okay!"

I had gone off to go and find my books from the said shelf, having to stand on my toes to reach the tall shelf. With my small hand outstretched for the first book spine I recognized to be the same color of one of the books, I quickly snatched hold of the novel and dragged it back down to me.

"I have you now-!" I was about to cheerfully declare, until I took a gander at what I had actually picked out.

It wasn't my book. It was a thinner hard-book, with no title on the front or description written on the back. Even the spine was blank. My eyebrows furrowed in confusion. I hadn't seen this book before. But maybe it were just a new one Father purchased or received from his travels? I would find out soon.

Opening up the cover of the book, the first thing that jumped out at me was a drawn picture of an Autumn leaf. It jumped at me so suddenly because of how realistically drawn the pen-leaf was. An artist with utmost patience took all the time to put in the beautiful shade of orange among the leaf, and color in the shades and lighting of the image. I blinked, a little confused as to why there was a drawing of a leaf, but impressed still.

The next page also astounded me. It was a professionally sketched and colored picture of the chateau that Father and I had stayed at in England with Reginald Birch. I could close my eyes and still memorize how the structure of that certain building was in my mental storage of fallen memories. Someone - whoever the artist was - had patience to color in the drawn chateau with so much time and effort. It was like looking at a painter's finest work.

I turned the page, and then, I was surprised by a drawn portrait of a woman. I lifted my eyebrow to the paper-portrait, becoming bewildered. The woman sketched into the page was a beautiful creature. Her skin - white as snow, her hair - brown as Autumn leaves, those eyes - green and pale like a polished jade shone in the sun's natural rays of light, and finally her lips - red as blood. Her face was a perfectly shaped and smoothed like a diamond shaped into a heart. Her smile - already toxic - with the raise of her dark brows as she seemed to have giggled. Her hair was also up in a ponytail held by a red ribbon - the same as I always did.

I studied this mysterious woman's face for a long, long moment of my time just standing there and analyzing. She was a stranger to me, yet, I couldn't help but feel... propinquity, closeness, for this female. It was as if I had seen her in another life, connected or bond by some invisible rope. I felt as if I should have known her, but, a name was just a lightyear away from my reach. Who was this woman? Who drew a portrait of her?

Curiously I turned over the page to see if there were anything written on the back. Sure enough, there was something written in blue ink on the back. All it said was,

'Avery'.

"Johanna!" Hickey's voice shouted my name, making me almost just sky-high for the ceiling like a terrified cat. I quickly threw the book back up to the same shelf I discovered it from before the study door had swung open. I quickly turned around, paralyzed in fear, as Hickey stumbled into the study. He was drunk. "C'mon downstairs, ya silly-willy brat. It's 'appy 'our!" He cheered with his arms swinging upward to the air, almost spilling beer from a tankard he held onto tight in his right-fist.

I tried to muster up myself to act natural. "I'm not a silly-willy! You're the one that's silly." I approached Hickey to help turn himself around and push him out the study doorway. "Is it dinner yet? I'm starving for a vanilla crown."

"Well, you've yet to eat yer stroganoff, Missus, uh... Brat!"

* * *

I was unsure if Father would mind my constant absence from the fort. I knew my way in-and-out of the kingdom-like area like the back of my hand.

But I couldn't help it. That day when I spotted the young Native boy...

Approaching the said woodland of where the past chase for my stolen satchel had led me, I was hunting through the same area for the boy. I didn't know if he was smart enough to start evading that certain spot, because there were strangers afoot. But, even still, he was young and likely daring - as I was. I walked through the tall untrimmed grass of the memorable area of the spot I remember retrieving my satchel at, but found nothing anew. The snare was cut and the burglar was gone. I wouldn't be surprised if a hunter found and helped the older man down, or he just simply wiggled his way out of the trap. Whatever.

The area was wide, but clamored with tall trees and a single boulder sticking out of the tall grass like a sore-thumb. It was flat at the top, enough for any traveler to sit or lay upon and rest. I wanted to sit down, but I was too enthusiastic on finding the young boy! I wanted to let him know that I was no threat to him. Let him know that I didn't mean to startled him before. I had even brought a peace-offering for good measures! It was a-

_Snap!_

In the midst of my fit of encouraging thoughts, I had unknowingly stepped into a snare trap. I remember feeling a thick rope gripping at my left-ankle quickly and roughly, and tossing me up to flip my body around, feet first into the air as I was launched up into the air and letting out a sharp yelp of pain when I had realized that my head collided forehead-first with the hard ground beneath me. Damn, the hit was so sharp that it made me see spots of black, and loose consciousness...

I was raised high into the air, to where even my fingertips couldn't touch the grass. I blanked out, feeling my eyes dropping heavily, and the warm thickness of fresh blood dripping profusely from my busted forehead. I was left hanging there to fall in-and-out of reality.

The last thing I heard were the small steps of feet approaching me...

* * *

**Ah snap, son. Something big is going to happen. but we'll save that for next time, right? :D**

**I hope you folks enjoyed this one! Read and leave some love. I'll see you again in the next chapter! :)**


	4. The Native Boy

**Ah, and the real challenge begins now.**

* * *

_"You knew she lived!" A young voice screamed to the top of his lungs, as my eyes remained trapped and shut, unable to force them open. "From the moment you looked me straight in the eye and told me that she was gone... you knew my Avery had lived!" The man's voice sounded especially young, but not a child's or teenager's. It sounded like the voice of a fresh new adult in his early 20's, screaming and crying as he mourned in the name of love for the woman's name. "Avery! ... Avery?! **AVERY! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!**"_

Suddenly, sucked out of the dark, and brought into the light once again, I snapped open my eyes with a horrified gasp for air, surging myself upward from laying on my back. I was met by the burning, yet welcoming, break of sunlight beaming down onto my vision like a spark of an explosion from a canon fire. I could see greenery again, and smell the scent of nature all around me once more as I took large inhalations through my nostrils. My chest was hammering hard, even if I were dazzled by the sunlight and bright colors of reality all around. I didn't know whether to stand or just lay back down to take in the moment that I was still alive.

But not until I heard the sound of rustling through the tall grass that was right beside me. I swallowed hard, but not because I was afraid to turn around and see who was beside me. I was trying to keep my stature. After a few more breaths, I looked over my shoulder to my left and was surprised by eons to see that it was...

That young Native boy.

"You are all right?" The dark-skinned boy asked me, sitting upon the flat boulder surface and looking down at me like it were normality again. "That is good... I kinda thought you would not wake, though." He then gestured to his forehead. "Your wound made it seem so."

That's when I realized that I had only blacked out because of the snare trap that caused my massive wound on my forehead. I lifted my hand up to the front of my temple, discovering that my wound was bandaged well. Two layers of bandage-wrappings around my head to keep a thick patch soaked in alcohol over my wound. The bandage-wrapping surrounded my cranium, snugged and not tight, but not loose, with my bangs damped over the bandages. I was surprised that the lad had even thought to bandage me. I thought he would run away again.

I looked back to him and gave a appreciative nod. "That wasn't necessary," yet I shrugged, "but thank you."

The boy shrugged back, but he understood, I could sense.

"Were those... your traps?" I asked as I tried to slowly pull myself up to a proper sitting position on my legs.

"Yes..." The young Native quietly answered. "I wanted to use those to capture small animals... or the wild dogs that keep disturbing my Village."

I chuckled to that, combing my bangs back with my fingers. "Well, you certainly caught a crazy rapscallion like me!" I joked, grinning at the boy with a toothy smile.

He cracked a smile on his face, trying to laugh along with me, but then he drifted from that notion. I wanted to ask what was wrong, but, I didn't know him that well. Even if he were a child, he obviously wasn't stupid. If he could make strong traps to capture humans, then of course he wasn't to be reckoned with. Though I was a tad curious to a variety of interesting questions I wanted to ask him.

"My name is Johanna." I introduced myself.

The boy nodded. "I am Ratonhnhaké:ton." He introduced himself.

My eyes widened as I could almost feel a dumbfound expression ready to pull down on my smile. "Oh...?" I blinked, trying to process the name. "... That... is the most fantastic, unique, and colorful name I had ever heard in years!" I jumped up suddenly to my feet, surprising the little boy. "Pronounce it once more, please!"

"_Ratonhnhaké:ton_." The Native lad repeated, raising an eyebrow at me with confusion. "And you," he pointed at me, "are... _Johanna_."

"Fascinating..." My eyes glowed in awe. "... I'm going to attempt your name in my own tongue, friend." And with that declared, I miserably tried at least six times to try pronouncing my new friend's name. "Raga-tha-gu - Raga-hagga - Oh, nevermind." I finally gave in, throwing my hands up and down. "One of these days I will coherently speak your name fluently like I speak everyone else's name like bad words."

Ratonhnhaké:ton look at me with studied eyes, that looked confused and chipper with curiosity. "You are a strange White girl..."

I pressed my lips together, dramatically lifting an eyebrow at him.

"I had only see so many White men pass through these woods hunting or marching... I had never witnessed - or even thought - that there were other kids out there..." Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced up at me with worry-wart eyes, unsure of whether he was offending me or not. I gave him an assuring smile, signalling that he wasn't hurting my feelings. "I sometimes wondered if the men would see those traps I laid out. I had not caught anything the first day I set them out... which was..." He quickly used his small and slim fingers to count the waiting days he had sat and patiently waited for a catch in his snares. "... It has been a month."

My eyes widened again. "Whoa!" I exaggerated in realistic shock. "I had no idea a child your age would have so much patience!"

He made a small press of his lips and bashfully glanced away for a moment to nod silently to me. Once again, I smiled at the lad. Ratonhnhaké:ton was a well-taught child, that knew how to maintain patience and respect well on the same balance-beam. It was obviously unlike a child to learn these sorts of emotions so fast, while they barely reached 10 years of age. Ratonhnhaké:ton had eventually told me that he was actually 7-years-old, actually. I was stunned to that answer, because I would have never guessed that he were still so young. He had manners of a well-mannered pre-teen! Amazing.

"Where is this... Village of yours, friend?" I asked, still calling him _friend _instead of trying to painfully pronounce his long name again.

"Oh, uh..." Ratonhnhaké:ton hesitated for a moment to think. "... I cannot tell you." He looked up to me again. "It is not good to say..."

"Ah." I said in a saddened, yet understanding, tone of voice.

It was fine, even though I was more than glad to go and meet his People. Ratonhnhaké:ton decided to stay back this time with me, not having tenancy on trying to run off in paranoiac fright once more. Even if he were a bashful boy, he was quite the good talker in conversations. I was still slightly surprised that he knew English so well, but I should have known that the Native Americans would obviously adapt to a second language quickly. For a lad, this 7-year-old boy was intelligent. Almost... too intelligent, I would remind myself...

We sat in the same spot and spoke to each other some more, fascinated by the fact that we had found each other out of our different worlds. We both had seen each others' races in a book or glimpses through the poor vision in hiding, and had never once believed there would be children involved. I didn't know how we got along so fine from the start of the meet-and-greet, but it was something I wasn't going to let go of.

"Oh, hey," I finally realized something important. "Look. I brought you something." I went for my satchel that was still luckily around my shoulder. I flipped open the bag and fished through to find the said 'something' for the Native boy. "It's something I wanted to give you, as a token of appreciation for your trap capturing that criminal from before." I pulled out a thin hard-book from my satchel. It was a light-blue book, light to carry, and was titled 'Knowing Nature'. "I don't know, I thought it would be fun for you to read this sort of thing... because it has all the names of places and is dabbled with a lot of bright colors..."

Ratonhnhaké:ton stared at the closed book for a moment, narrowing his eyes at it, until he reached out his tiny hand and took the book from me. I thought he wouldn't enjoy being given that sort of gift, not really understanding how he or his People work with strangers being gentle. But, he looked back up to me and smiled. "Thank you." He quietly obliged, making a smile tug at my features with joy. "I will read it everyday."

_You know how to read, too?! _I wanted to burst out, but quickly kept myself at bay from that potential offense. "You bet you will!" I said, a little too enthusiastically. But it still made Ratonhnhaké:ton grin no less.

Sunset was beginning to dawn down to dusk, and we had to bid our farewells to each other once we noticed the sky turning pink and purple, indicating nightfall. Ratonhnhaké:ton waved goodbye to me, as he stood on top of the boulder and watched me walked off back into the familiar trail that would lead me out of the woodland. I turned and waved farewell to the young Native with a smile, before we both went our separate ways.

But we promised to meet again.

* * *

Even if things with Father and I were neutral, there were still many things I needed to discuss with him about.

Particularly, I wanted to know something about that drawn woman in the journal. Avery, her name was. I had a strange nightmare of her that time when I had blacked out, and it seemed too much of a coincidence to have my mind materialize a horrifying dream on me. I didn't see anything in my dream, but the sight of a pitch black void and only hearing the screaming voices of a man desperately crying Avery's name like something awful had just happened to her. They say when you have a terrible dream and keep thinking about it, it is usually a big sign that something terrifying of coming your way in fate. Could it be one of those things?

I wanted to ask Father about it, but I was too afraid he was going to be reluctant. I didn't want to chase him off, but I had figured he shouldn't. Why would he? I pondered on asking about the mysterious woman to the others, because I didn't know whether they would know what I was gawking about, or whether they knew EXACTLY who she was and weren't admitting it. There just had to be something I could do to make Father talk...

"Johanna," Father called for me. "There's someone I want you to meet."

Father and I had been asked by an anonymous source from the outside of Fort George to speak to the hidden messenger. From what the letter had described, we are to only come as a pair – with no one else following – to the Old Tree in the heart of the forest on the Northern Road. It was something amply new for me to be exposed to, just because I hadn't thought I would be involved in one of Father's secret meetings. This was the first.

On the way there, riding along stagecoach towards the destination, I had repeatedly asked Father just who this mysterious writer was. Father wasn't so much tensed to see this person, acting quite comfortable with the fact that he is allowing me to tag along his secret meeting. But, he wouldn't tell me whom it was that we had to go see.

"It's a surprise, my pet." He smiled genuinely at me.

I narrowed my eyes at him, pouting as usual.

It was a half-hour ride to the said destination, arriving to the Northern Road together. Once the rider of the stagecoach had turned the wagon around to venture back to Boston, Father and I found it safe to go and find the certain location the writer had wanted us to meet him at. From what the letter said, he wanted to see us at the riverside of Charles River. Odd place for a meeting, but I didn't complain.

It was a long walk to the said river, but eventually Father and I had approached our destination with our feet finally walking along smoother surface and grass. My eyes shined bright when I saw how the sunlight beamed down on the active river currents, childishly running ahead to the riverside.

But when I reached the riverside, with my feet pressed deep into the softened wet shore, I was suddenly surprised by a stranger jumping out from behind a tree standing a few feet away from where I was. I made a horrified yelp and fell backwards onto my behind when I was startled by the man when he shouted, "boo!"

"Hahaha," The stranger barked out laughing at my reaction, "you silly-willy ol' girl, easily scared, just like your Father."

This stranger was a young man that looked like he was reaching his late 20's. He was American, I could tell – from how his voice sounded more foreign opposing my British accent. He was tall, likely reaching my Father's height, and looked as if he had bright green eyes as well, reflecting mine like a limpid pool of pale jades. His hair was pitch-black, and his skin was rather pale, exposing visible marks of healed scars along his forearms and forehead.

"Elroy," Father marched up to the two of us, "is this the best you could do to make a good impression?"

Elroy – the stranger – shrugged to that. "Ey, Brother, there's nothing wrong with a little scare." He grinned widely at Father, baring pearly whites. Elroy then darted his eyes back to me and brought out his arms. "Well, come hither, you rapscallion of a Kenway!"

He expected me to hug him? After scaring me nearly to death! Quickly I shot up to my feet and furiously pointed at the older man with a hard glare. "Who the deuce are you?! What're your intentions?! Father, he scared me near death!" I yapped and yapped like a small Pomeranian dog.

Both the men laughed at my poor demeanor.

"Oh, you're too funny!" Elroy waved his hand dismissively.

"Johanna," Father finally took the moment to formally introduce the stranger to me. He pat down a heavy hand on Elroy's shoulder with a sigh, "This is your Uncle."

I paused. My body almost went numb, as I deadpanned at Father. It wasn't that I didn't care. I was just so, so, _so _profound by the sudden words...

My eyes glanced up to Elroy, who was looking back at me with his lips formed into a line, also unsure of my reaction.

Thoughts rambled through my head instantly as seconds past and I was allowed to think hard. Was this my Uncle? Why hadn't he seen me before, when I lived in England? Was he hiding? Is he using the Uncle image to hide himself from something? Too many thoughts hammered down on my brain as I continued to mindlessly and blankly stare at Elroy with an expressionless look.

"... How?" I finally mustered up the question that first fell upon my sealed lips. "... How is he my Uncle?"

"Oh, I'm related to your Mother, dear!" Elroy answered me thoughtfully.

I blinked.

"Yep, I'm your Mother's little brother. I figured you wouldn't know much about me, ever since-" Elroy was abruptly interrupted by a sharp jab to his side by Father's elbow, cutting him off from explaining anything further about my Mother. I had already figured I had a Mother in another life, but I had no idea about her or any clue of her life or ideals. Father would never talk about her. "Well," Elroy cleared his throat, "we can still catch up together, Johanna - if your Daddy doesn't jab me in the side again." He shot a glance at Father, making me snort with a short laugh.

His full name was Elroy Mitchell, an American young man that was strangely enthusiastic and rebellious to any rule set on him. Even if he were about 28 years of age, he had the full energy of a 10-year-old and excitement for adventure like a youngster pirate out at sea in his own vessel. Elroy's energy was actually welcoming to me, seeing that I was supposedly not the only one that craved adventure out in the opened world and knowledge.

Father didn't seem to mind the attitude either. I was so glad he didn't.

At first, Father and Elroy spoke to each other in privacy, having a conversation from afar that I had to stay out of. I couldn't hear, but I watched intently on whatever they were gesturing and observing. Elroy seemed to have started to want to start yelling about something, but he stopped quickly and just calmed down to speak more fluently, while Father was looking irritated with his tone of voice. They looked like they were holding off on an argument that was bound to erupt, hadn't I been there to watch them. I just sat a good distance away, obviously still not allowed to be part of what my Father or Uncle could be planning.

Then I noticed that Elroy handed something over to Father. I couldn't tell what, but it was obviously something abundantly serious, if Father would snatch it out of Elroy's hand so quickly and hide it underneath his cloak. Elroy lastly gave Father a sassy grin, before struting off to where I was.

"My, my, my," Elroy sighed, rolling his shoulders, "your Father hadn't changed a bit since I last saw the man."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Father is always like that, though."

"Oh, I know. Sad." He rolled his eyes. "But, anyhow, enough about the old British man. Let's talk some about you, Johnna."

And we talked. As I would describe how my life was going so far, being reunited with Father just a month ago, Uncle Elroy was fascinated to know more about my everyday life. He didn't seem bored in the less of my daily life in the fort. I supposed he would be, judging by the fact that we had never once met before, and all Elroy wanted to do was get to know me and understand a little more. Even if it were hard to believe that he were my Uncle still, I oddly wanted to accept him as a family member. Perhaps over the fact that I had wholly believed that I had no family other than Father.

"Oh, so you're a Templar now?" Elroy asked me with a raise of his eyebrows.

I made a small and pevish look. "Well... I don't know if I am or not." I whispered, as if I would get in trouble for saying so. "I still want to decide whether I want to be one or not... Or just not be a part of any order..."

"What about being an Assassin?" He curiously asked me.

I immediately thought it was a ridiculous question. "Assassins wouldn't accept me. I'm an obvious child of the Templars..."

"Doesn't mean you can't convert, hon." He threw out. "I mean, I had converted eons ago, when I was your age."

My eyes widened and my mouth almost went dry. I looked at Elroy with a expression of utter shock. "... You're an... Assassin?"

"Always have been." He nodded with a smirk. "I can't speak much about these sorts of things publicly to you, though. Not while," He looked over his shoulder to glance at Father, who was miding his own business reading a journal I predicted Elroy handed over earlier, "your Father could be having the ears of a hawk. So," Suddenly, Uncle Elroy pulled me up into a tight embrace, while his hands had secretly fished out an item that he quickly put into the inner-pocket of my coat I wore, "read this." He whispered silently.

A journal, I knew it was. But of what?

It was a short meeting with Elroy, but we had to leave. Elroy lastly gave me another hug, and had given Father a bear-hug for good measures. When he left, Elroy threw on the white hood over his head, shrouding his eyes from the world, and quickly ran off into the forest area, disppearing before I even knew he had vanished into thin air.

"Father," I decided to be bold as Elroy while the stagecoach had arrived to give us a ride back to Boston. "Can I ask you about Mother?"

Father hesitated for a moment, eyes glancing another direction. "... I don't know." He tried to evade.

But I wouldn't let him off so easily. "Well... can you tell me what Mother was like, when she was alive?" I asked innocently as we climbed into the stagecoach. "Can you tell me what she was like?"

At first, Father was about to decline once more, but then, he stopped and hesitated again, making a thoughtful look of gathering his stumbling thoughts together, as if he were trying to find a good beginning for his little tale. Once we sat snugged inside the stagecoach and the rider commanded the horses to start moving, Father finally found the right way to start.

"I had never met a woman so crazy and ambitious in my entire life. But your Mother was."

* * *

**More to come SOON. M'kay, pumpkin?**


End file.
